The Boy in the Tower
by bluespiritgal
Summary: AU, prequel. Set sometime during the early years follow the Great Purge. King Uther continues his quest to purge the land of magic and gains enemies along the way. Meanwhile a lonely boy lives locked away in a tower. Warning for physical/emotional abuse
1. Chapter 1

**Usual disclaimers. Don't own the characters or the show. Wish I did. A sad tale... **

**The Boy in the Tower**

During the years following of the Great Purge, under King Uther's reign, Camelot remained undefeated, despite attempts of enemies near and far to conquor it. Their efforts had all been thrwarted. No force had been able to breech its walls with either sinew and sword, or catapults and arrows. It was as if Camelot was invisibly protected, its walls fortified against attack, only suffering minor damage no matter the strength of force thrown up against it. No army of man or magic had been able to break through its gates or scale its walls successfully.

And throughout these years King Uther's battle against magic continued. Those who praticed sorcerry, or even suspected of using magic, were hunted down and rounded up. Those that weren't killed outright while attempting to escape, were brought before the King and promptly sentence to the axe, or worse, the pyre. King Uther's hatred of magic was all consuming and he was merciless in his quest to ride the land, for magic, in Uther's heart was evil.

Blood spilled throughout the land, which cried out at the injustice. To Uther it was a necessary sacrifice to cleanse the land of evil and its corruption. His quest to purify his relm generated many enemies of man and magic alike and King Uther knew he would need to find some way protect his kingdom.

And that is why he had not killed the boy when he had been discovered, but like the Great Dragron, imprisoned him. In a tower high above the castle the young boy had been taken, kept. None but a handful, under penalty of death, knew of his existence. His presence was never spoken of, no records kept, and those ordered to guard him commanded never to speak directly to him.

And as the years went by, Camelot remained protected and the King was satisfied, assured in his supremacy the Druid prophesies were nothing more than myths of false hope and would never come to pass.

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The boy looked out the small slit in the tower, one of three small windows around the circular room that had been his total existence for as long as he could remember. He would spend hours on end perched on the small table looking downward to the activity below. One slotted window looked down onto the village and market place where people moved about daily, unaware of being so curiously watched and envied for their freedom by the boy in the tower. Another looked down upon a green field, often used for training session of men in chainmail and armour. He would watch for hours while they trained, trading sword for sword in an elaborate dance of skill and power. They looked so angry sometimes, and sometimes the boy feared them, but mostly he found it fascinating to watch. The third looked out to a large grassy expanse and a road that led off into the woods beyond the castle's walls and secrets. He would watch the comings and goings of people arriving and departing and of the patrols leaving early in the morning and returing later in the afternoon or evening.

At night, the boy would stand and look down onto the village below, at all the lights and the columns of smoke bellowing lazily upwards, curly and drifting away into the night. He would gaze at the lit windows dreaming of the people inside, trying to picture what they were doing: laughing, talking, sharing a meal, and later as the lights slowly went out in each house, of the people inside curling up together, sleeping.

The boy vaguely remembered these things, or maybe they had really only been a dream, of warm arms tucking him in at night, of a hand stroking his dark raven hair fondly, of soft warm eyes gazing lovingly down and the gentle kiss to his forehead as he drifted off to sleep. For a long time he clung to those images, but as the years passed, try as he might, they began to fade like a dream does when one first awakens.

The only memories the boy had now were of his sparsley furnished circular room high above the castle, and the small glimpses of life below from the slotted windows. Once a day the small panel at the base of the large oak door was opened and a tray of food, water and a bucket was slid in. No one ever spoke to him, acknowledged him, before the little panel door was shut and locked again. The larger door was seldom opened, but when it was, it always caused the boy to shudder.

The first time it happened the boy had already been locked up for some time, weeks, perhaps months, it was so hard to tell, torn away from the small village and the only family he had ever known. The thick oak door swung open and boy jumped up startled as the King strode in followed by two beefy guards. Their presence engulfed the small room and made the boy very nervous.

With a nod from the King, one of the guards walked over to the small little table and swept the contents off and onto the floor. He then placed something swaddled in a red cloth upon it. It clunked heavily as it was set down. The cloth was unwrapped revealing a light colored stone. The flattish blocked-shaped stone was almost large enough to cover the small table and etched into it were some strange symbols.

The King then ordered the boy to stand before him. Frightened by the hardness in the King's eyes, the boy took a step back instead. One of the guards grabbed him painfully around his thin arm and forced him before the King. The King looked down at the trembling boy with distaste and from his belt he withdrew a gilded dagger. The boy's eyes grew wide in terror as the blade was waved in front of him. "Give me your hand," the King commanded.

When the terrified boy made no move to comply, the guard reached out and forced the boy's arm up, presenting his hand palm up. The King grabbed the boy's hand and before he could even react, the blade of the dagger swept across his palm, tearing open the flesh. With another nod from the King, the guard forced the boy over to the table where the blood flowed freely out of his body and onto the stone, pooling into the strange etchings. The guard squeezed the boy's hand painfully bringing tears to his eyes as he watch more blood flow out and onto the stone until the etchings were completely stained crimson. The guard released the boy who then cradled his hand protectively against his chest, whimpering, and tried to back away again, but was stopped when two strong hands clamped down on his thin shoulders and squeezed, forcing him to remain rooted in place.

The King once more towered above him, the bloody knife still welded in his hand. The boy tried to turn his face away from the sight, but the King grabbed his face and held it in his hand. "You will look at me boy! Look at me!" The boy stared into the hard, angry eyes, eyes full of such hatred and loathing. "You will repeat exactly what I say or I will kill you where you stand." And then the King spoke words in a strange language he had never heard before, though for some reason they felt vaguely familiar. "Repeat them!" He tried but since he rarely used his voice and he was very nervous, they came out jumbled and incoherent. The King grew angry and squeezed his face until tears welled in his eyes from the pain "Say them again!" And again the boy tried, stumbling over the words. "Again!" The King commanded and kept on and on making the boy repeat the strange words over and over, and all the while ordering the boy to look at him.

After repeating the words for several more times, something deep inside the boy stirred. His eyes widened and in the reflection of the King's spiteful glare, the boy saw his own blue eyes turn golden. Almost immediately a great surge of energy poured out from his lanky body and the etchings in the stone ignited in a bluish silver light and crackled with a tingling current that radiated upward. The light grew brighter, nearly blinding before peaking and collapsing back down to a small flame before dying out, leaving behind a burnt scar that continued to pulsate softly.

The boy moaned and his eyes rolled back in his head a second before he collapsed to the floor in a spent stupor. He couldn't move as if suddenly every fiber of his being was spent, exhausted beyond measure. As blackness descened, the last thing the boy saw before loosing consciousness was the King's satisfied twisted smile.

The boy floated in and out of consciousness for how long he did not know until he became aware of something touching his face. It was soft and soothing. Gradually he became aware of a voice too, but this one was different from the King's. It was kind and coaxed him gently. The boy's eyes fluttered opened and it took several more minutes for his vision to clear enough to make out a set of gentle aged eyes and a slightly wrinkled face framed in shoulder length greying hair. The boy moaned, too exhausted to really think. An arm slid under his back lifting him up and something was pressed against his lips. "Drink this, child. It will make you feel better."

The boy complied but immediately shuddered then gagged at the vile liquid that seemed to burn down his throat with a sickening bittersweet taste. "All of it, boy. You must drink all of it." He tried to protest, but in the end was too weak to offer any real struggle and complied. Time slipped away again and when he awakened it was dark, his room illuminated in the soft glow of candlelight. The boy stared at the light a long time, mesmerized by the flame, its beauty, before once more being aware of a presence lifting him up and pressing a glass to his lips. This time, instead of the vile liquid that had burned his throat, it was water, cool and refreshing and boy drank greedily. He wanted more, but the cup was withdrawn. "That's enough for now. You will make yourself sick."

The boy's eyes once more gazed up into the face of the old man, but this time, the aged eyes look sad and angry. The boy's lips quivered, his own eyes widening wondering what he done now. At his fear they softened and a hand reached up and stroked the child's head in reassurance. The old man then reached down and took the boy's hand in his own. The boy immediately flinched but the man gently reassured him again that he meant no harm that he only wanted to check his wound.

_ Wound? _The boy glanced curiously down to his hand wrapped in a bandage. For moment he wondered why it was covered before he remembered. Immediately he tried to withdraw his hand away, unable to stop the tears from welling and overflowing. Gentle fingers caressed his arm, patted his shoulder. "I mean you no harm, child." Gradually the fear subsided just enough to allow the old man to once more examine his hand. With infinite care, he removed the bloody strip of cloth, examined the stitched cut across his palm and applied a salve to it that immediately seemed to numb the worst of the pain before redressing it. The boy sat silently through the whole process acutely aware now of the two guards also in the room standing close to the door. The old man threw them an annoyed glance then ignored them as he sat the boy up, offered him more water then some bread and cheese. The boy stared at it unsure, but the man smiled gently. "Go on, eat it."

The door swung open and once more the King stood. "You may go now, physician, and speak of this to no one." The old man relunctantly rose and bowed before the King. "Yes, Sire." He glanced sadly at the boy one last time before departing. The King glared distainly down at the small boy cowering up against the stone wall, cradling his injured hand, and his mouth once more curved into a satisfied smile before turning and striding out. The guards followed and the great oak door was locked once again and the boy was forgotten, left to his solitary, lonely existence in the tower high above the castle.

Two seasons passed before the great oak door opened again. There had been much activity, especially on the training field where the knight's numbers seemed to increase. Even from his great height in the tower high above the castle, the boy felt the tension in the air. The market place below still thrived with activity during the day, but the streets grew deathly quiet once the sun set. The road leading away from the castle had increasing activities as patrols of knights left more frequently and sometimes came back in far fewer numbers.

When the King strode in, once more the stone tablet was placed on the table. This time the boy backed away in defiance, his eyes glittering darkly. The guards came forth and as before, forced the boy to stand before the King. Once more the jeweled dagger appeared and the boy's hand was pulled out and presented to him. But before the dagger could slice his palm, the boy's fear escalated and his eyes turned golden. In an instant the King was thrown back against the wall. As the boy tried lash out again, this time against the guards, something was clamped around his neck and he screamed in pain, collapsing to the floor. He suddenly felt nauseous, sick, his stomach heaving and pain twisted through his insides. He lay doubled over, gasping as the King rose to feet, eyes filled with hatred. "You will learn obedience, boy, or you will die like the rest of your evil kind!" He kicked the boy in the stomach and left, the guards following in his wake. The great door slammed shut.

Still curled on the floor the boy reached up with shaky fingers and felt the collar around his neck. It was heavy and made of metal. He clawed and pulled at it but it would not come off. He concentrated, trying to will it off but was immediately overcome with sickness again and great pains that left him writhing on the floor panting and left his head feeling like it was going to explode. A tight band constricted around his chest and the boy's eyes widened in renewed terror when he realized he couldn't feel his magic anymore, it was gone! The feeling left him weak, dizzy, and sick to his stomach as if a part of him had suddenly been ripped from him. He felt like weeping, grieving in its loss. His magic had always been apart of him, as instinctual as breathing and he felt deathly ill and afriad at its absence. Unable to even move from his tormented state, the boy was left there for three days and two nights. One the third day the King returned.

Once again the boy was hauled to his feet and made to stand before King, held in place by two guards on either side of him. With a nod, a third guard removed the collar. Almost immediately the boy could feel the familiar hum of his magic within him and he wept in relief. The King watched, pleased. "You will do as I command boy, or the collar will be placed upon you once again."

The boy looked up terrified. "Give me you hand!" The boy hesitated, and the guard moved in once more to replace the collar. He cried out, and shrank back sobbing before mournfully raising his hand, palm up. A satisfied smile gleamed in the King's eye and one again the boy felt the sharp dagger cut open his flesh and the warm flow of his blood stained the stones. He was forced to repeat the strange words again over and over while the King held his face in his hand until his eyes glowed golden and the pulsating light scorched the stone once more. As before, a powerful surge of energy left his body and the boy crumpled unconscious to the floor.

"Does he live, physician?" The boy heard the King through the darkness. "Yes, Sire, but he is very weak. He needs treatment, nourishment," a kinder, gentler voice said. "See to it enough to keep him alive." A hand softly touched the trembling boy's arm and squeezed gently. "Yes, Sire."

The next time when the King demanded his obedience, the boy did not even try and fight him, but meekly presented his hand. When he woke up hours or perhaps days later, (he was never really sure), to the physician treating his wound and forcing the bittersweet burning liquid down his throat, the boy merely turned his head away and let the hopeless tears flow freely, while outside on the castle's outer wall, King Uther stood watching once again as Camelot withstood the volley of Cedrid's attack.

**Reviews appreciated...**


	2. Chapter 2

**My original intent for "Boy in the Tower" was just a one chap sad, kinda shocking piece about the hypocrisy of the King but many of you through your wonderful reviews and emails urged me to continue the tale...so here it is...**

**Usual disclaimer: don't own the show...wish I did.**

**AU story, prequel. ****Chapter Two:**

**Reflections in the Water**

The boy poured water into the small shallow dish, then sat with his legs tucked underneath him on the floor. Leaning over the bowl, he peered into the water at the reflection staring back. He gazed at the image a long time, pondered the blue eyes fringed in dark lashes that on closer inspection, had tiny flecks of gold hidden within. He lifted a hand, skimmed his fingers over the long lean face smudged in dirt, over the prominent cheekbones that seemed to stick out above hollow cheeks, to the overly large ears poking out from the clump of raven black hair. The odd face watched his endeavor with a mixture of sadness and curiosity and something else hidden, not quite figured out. He fingered the short ebony strands that messily fell on his forehead (but never seemed grow any longer than he liked), before his eyes drifted down to the wide mouth and full lips that were turned slightly downward. He tugged the corners upward into smile and found one side lifted a little higher than the other exposing a toothy grin. The boy in the tower decided he liked the smile and a little glimmer of something less sad, less lonely sparkled in the blue eyes.

But after a time he forget about his own reflection and concentrated on the shallow pool of water instead. With a brief flash of gold in the cerulean eyes, the water suddenly shimmered and turned a milky, opaque white. The boy never exactly remembered when he learned to do this. Maybe it was something he always knew how to do, or perhaps it was something born out of his loneliness. Either way it made his heart beat wildly in both excitement and fear.

Nervously, he threw a glance at the solid oak door, his thin body shuddering slightly, for he knew the King would not like it and he would surely be punished all the more if found out.

But the door to his prison, his only existence for so long, remained closed, its occupant all but forgotten. Turning his attention back to the water, he swept his hand over the bowl, no words ever spoken as the eyes glittered gold.

A shimmer appeared on the surface, like the sun's rays catching, sparkling off the glass windows in the little houses below after a good rain. Then flashes of movement and color appeared. Blurry at first, they slowly came into focus. Unable to resist their draw, the boy leaned closer, mesmerized in wonder at all the _things_ and _people _he saw.

There were stalls filled with wares, colorful and odd and so many people, all moving about. Some finely dressed in grand gowns and jackets and capes, looking regal and very important. Others were in armor, like the knights on the field the boy often watched from his prison and the little slotted window in the tower high above. Still others wore simpler clothing, unadorned dresses and tunics and pants similar to his own, except perhaps a little less shabby, a little less worn, a little less...forgotten. They all moved about, some fast, some slow, talking, laughing, arguing, (though he actually couldn't hear any of them, the boy liked to imagine nonetheless what they were saying.)

A woman waved her hands frantically, her face pinched, exasperated, as she hustled three children out the door. They looked cheekily back before darting away leaving the woman standing, scowling, hands on hips, yet a smile tugging her mouth. The boy watched them run and tried to imagine what it was like to run free, to let his legs carry him down the cobblestone streets, through the marketplace and across the green, green grass and into the forest beyond.

A dark skinned man worked pounding iron over red coals. He paused as a girl with braided ebony hair brought out a pitcher and glass. He paused in his work, smiling down at the girl and she smiled back as he drank her offering. He then drew her to his side, into a hug, kissing her forehead. The boy tried to imagine those strong arms around him, hugging him close, making him feel loved.

A woman dressed in a flowing, fine gown passed an old woman selling flowers. She stopped, smiled, bent over and sniffed, eyes lighting up in pleasure. The boy breathed in and tried to imagine their fragrance, how the petals felt against his skin, for they must be very beautiful for the woman's smile deepened.

And so many others faces he watched. Some sad, some funny, some angry, some a little frightening, but still the boy could not draw away and dreamed and tried to imagine he was there, among them, one of them.

But then a face suddenly appeared before him and the boy shook in terror. The King stared right at him, right through him, mouth stiff in anger and displeasure, eyes hard and unrelenting. The boy scrambled back, terrified, and the King's image vanished. The boy huddled against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around thin knobby knees, trembling uncontrollably. Tear filled eyes darted to the locked door awaiting the moment King's wrath would be upon him.

He stayed there all day and into the night, huddled into a frozen ball, waiting. But the King never came, nobody did.

Someone whispered to him in the dark_..."Sleep, young warlock, sleep."_ And like a warm comforting blanket placed over him, his eyes grew heavy and the boy did.

Days passed and still the King never came and gradually the boy's fear lessened and he grew brave, bold once again.

The water shimmered and once more revealed its wonders, its magic to the lonely, forgotten boy. He watched the people come and go, watched them all, fascinated, until one day the raven haired boy saw _him.._.

It wasn't the finery of his dress, the finest ever seen, clearly indicating his importance. It wasn't the way the people, both noble and common alike, stopped and stared as at the golden haired boy as he passed by, some smiling with fond delight, others in envy. It wasn't even the way the young boy tried to smile back as he tipped his head ever so proper, ever so slightly, only for his cheeks to stain crimson and his mouth to turn into a prattish frown as an elbow jabbed him in the ribs from the young girl with long dark hair giggling next to him.

It wasn't the way the children of nobles hung about him, catering to his whims, befriended him, yet laughed and snickered behind his back.

It wasn't the way he watched the knights parry on the field, his eyes dancing in eagerness and excitement, or the way he boldly tried to picked up the sword, hands still too small to grasp the hilt properly, yet eyes determined only for it to land clumsily at his feet. It wasn't the way he retrieved it, and started over again, eyes more determined than ever.

It wasn't the way he sat stoically and refused to flinch or shed a tear as the physician treated a deep cut on his arm while a guard cautiously watched.

It wasn't the way he stood on the balcony, looking intently down on the crowd as a young woman was led out and tied to a stake. It wasn't how he stood erect, hands clasped stiffly behind his back, confused blue eyes never wavering from the sight as a hand was held firmly on his shoulder, or how they widened in fear, horror as the King lowered his other arm down and the pyre was lit.

It wasn't any of these things, yet it was everything that made his magic to stir deep within and want to reach out as he watched the single tear slipped from the young prince's eye and run down his cheek as the screams rose and the smell of acrid smoke filled the air and the King smiled in satisfaction.

**TBC...**

**Reviews appreciated**


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